St. Augustine, Florida, is the supposed location of the Fountain of Youth, a legendary discovery made by the 16th century Spanish explorer, Ponce de Leon. But had the Spaniard not been lured in the early 1500s by Florida and its naturally occurring springs, he may have continued his quest much further north and west to Montana, where five centuries later there has yet to be a claim on a fountain or well or spring of youth-restoring waters but perhaps no one has looked hard enough for the exact source.
All I know is that no one grows old in the West.
St. Augustine and its myth-making enterprises over the de Leon’s discovery have it wrong. Here in the Flathead Valley, I regularly see miracle after miracle of agelessness. Not from a sip of water from a spring spouting from the earth but rather, it’s on the ski hill where octogenarians log more days skiing than the entire population of St. Augustine ski in a decade. On any given weekday, a chairlift of retirees likely outpaces most middle-aged folks like myself for days on skis and they don’t seem to be slowing down anytime soon, either. When the snow melts, those same people swap ski boots for hiking boots, hiking miles and miles of trail whereas their contemporaries in states like Florida require golf carts and special gated communities to make the most of what’s left of their youth. When I look around at the gym or trailhead, I imagine that de Leon would have been shocked to see how older people (of course, he’d be shocked! In his time, old age was considered 55 and lightweight, synthetic gear would have been a welcome reprieve from wool and layers of capes) in northwest Montana live such active and robust lives. Age doesn’t come with a set of constraints or expectations here as it does in other places. Perhaps it’s less about an actual fountain of youth and more so a perspective that living in the West comes with perks like being able to ski, backpack, fly fish, kayak, hike, and bike no matter your age.
Years ago, when my dad visited me and I threw him in an inflatable kayak to paddle down the Middle Fork, he took a quick glance at the makeup of our paddling group. Some were in their 201 as I was at the time, but others spanned the decades into their 60s. By the end of his week, after kayaking and hiking, and enjoying post-adventure beverages in the magical July sun my dad turned to me and remarked, “Here folks are so active as they age. It’s inspiring. It’s not like this many other places.” I wasn’t paying attention to age, but the makeup of our group came as a bit of culture shock to him.
At the time he was referring to the upper Midwest where he lived, and I do find that when I leave Montana, I notice that mountain culture’s celebration of an active lifestyle isn’t the same everywhere else. And like my dad once said, it is inspiring. While I may currently mutter and sigh about my mid-40s body responding a bit slower and stiffer, I head to the ski hill and try to keep up with my in-laws who, 30 years my senior, ski six days a week and carve perfect turns on the groomers. From chairlift to trailhead, aging and active lives go hand in hand. I’ve even had a friend, who is a primary physician, complain that “people are just too healthy here in the Flathead. They’re so active.”
I can’t fault de Leon for his quest—I mean he was out charting new territory before the advent of vaccines and fleece—but his geography was a bit off. Yes, there is an artisanal spring in St. Augustine, and you can still drink from it. But if you’re looking for the real Fountain of Youth, one clue is this: no one grows old in the West.